More.
Hermione craves more.
As she lies in her bed later that night in the same tranquil position—supine, eyes wide open and plastered on the ceiling, hands clasped tightly over her chest which lifts up and down in steady inhales and exhales—all she can think about is the exhilarating sensation that took over her body when she terrorized Hannah. When she wrapped her hand around the girl's throbbing, rouge neck, when she yanked her hair and gazed down into her frightened eyes, when she conjured jagged and coarse ropes to wrap around her limbs and force sedation down her throat—
When she performed the Torment Curse and watched whatever sanity was left in Hannah Abbott be overshadowed by ten times the amount of whatever pain she was feeling before.
It felt like heaven—watching Hannah plunge into total despair.
Now, Hermione craves a rapture.
No—not just yet. Her bones ache for it, but time is still on her side. There's a whole stretch of time in the stratosphere of life that's set aside for this moment, and Hermione will do anything to elongate and strengthen the elasticity of that continuum. Make it so that she has forever to terrorize people, should she want to do so.
In a trance-like, hypnotized fashion, Hermione stares at the ceiling, lets her eyes roll back, and welcomes back those black spots in her line of vision.
It's as if the exertion of her fury just minutes ago has cleansed the tension from her body. She'd been dying to launch the impetus against her peers, so the release of that anger and conception of her project brings such satisfaction that she physically senses a change in the way her body moves. Everything is silkier, cleaner, and more beautiful than before. Velvet would envy Hermione if it felt even a sliver of her heart, soul, and skin in this moment.
Hermione takes a moment to thank the gods that she didn't go through with her suicide. That would've been too easy. And she would've never known this feeling—gratification. Fulfillment. Consummation.
If only she could multiply the sweltering emotion in the pit of her stomach. Take everything that she did tonight and magnify the actions, the pain, the sound of Hannah screaming. As annoying as each cry was, those sounds kept Hermione going. Fueled her hot blood to flow faster and fingers to dig deeper into Hannah's skin.
Gods, the way Hannah's neck felt under her grip. She touched ecstasy tonight with that action. Felt the pulse of Hannah's throat against her hand invigorate her own heartbeat.
Hermione licks her lips, her mind drifting to think of him.
She muses over the way Draco spoke to her with his tempting voice, the way he touched her—lightly—with those satisfying fingers, and the way he held Hannah down, sneered at her, forced her mind to tear open for him, chastised her for being a proper bitch.
The way he obeyed Hermione. That image, above all else, swirls around her memory.
A tight cramp sparks inside of Hermione's inner thigh. And then a second later, she feels another one against her other thigh.
She clenches her teeth and huffs out of her nose, gazing at the drawn, ruby curtains that sheathe her from the other girls.
Hermione can't stop thinking about him and the way he looked tonight. Hair strewn loose on his forehead, jaw tightened as he wrestled Hannah to the floor of the supply closet, hands wide and fingers long as they gripped her whirling shoulders.
Voice light yet raspy—a perfect balance, enough to make her skin crawl and insides keen.
Her hand moves faster than her brain can comprehend. It dips below the band of her underwear.
Hermione stops herself. Scoffs—quietly—and proceeds to roll her eyes.
No. Fuck's sake, she's not going to touch herself to the thought of Draco helping her torture Hannah. Although, the things they did tonight surely reap reasons to do so. The way he looked at her with those sinful, silver eyes, called her that secret name she loves—Ophelia—held Hannah down and licked his lips and gazed at Hermione as she slapped, tortured, and terrorized the stupid bitch—
Hermione's middle finger takes control.
It nestles between herself and begins to rub clockwise.
The movement is slow at first. A simple taste of the buildup to come. Hermione is patient and tolerant of what her body desires, obeying it yet teasing it, too. Erecting the feeling as tenderly as possible, so as not to spoil the journey she's about to embark upon.
And then she spreads her legs a few inches and deepens the action, slipping her equally eager ring finger next to her middle and stroking herself harder, but still not too hard. She works in stages, building the tautness below her navel in a way that echoes the game that has developed between her and Draco. She plays with the idea of patience and stamina, very lightly twirling her fingers around herself in a tease. And then, when she decides that it's her moment to take control—when she channels those threatening eyes and tempting disposition, one that's enough to make Draco fall to his knees for her—she transitions to rougher strokes, mirroring that insatiable desire within her to be the dominant one of them.
That image—Draco at her knees, his hands sketching stars on her bare legs as he worships her skin with his tongue and lips—leads Hermione to dip her dancing fingers further down to meet her core. She has to push her tongue against the roof of her mouth to keep from making a sound as she teases that sweet spot and feels her slick already cover the tips of her two fingers.
And then, his voice enters her mind.
Ophelia, do it.
There's no point in resisting—not when that voice is so fucking appealing, so charming, so much like music to her ears. An orchestra of secret desires with thundering acoustics that captivate the theatre that is her own mind and soul.
Anything you want.
Her middle finger, smooth with her wetness, glides into herself with ease.
She silently gasps.
Oh, the way Draco said those words to her. She melted then and she melts now. Soft, controlled motions guide her as she fucks herself with both her finger and the sound of Draco's voice.
But she still wants more.
You are a god, Ophelia.
Hermione purses her lips as her ring finger glides inside to join her middle.
And then she adjusts the placement of her hand, angling it so that her thumb has access to her delicate clit. The pad of her finger circles around it, and a sharp sensation flickers just below her navel and spreads like a spiderweb through her stomach.
She can barely keep her head straight and her mouth shut as she continues to replay those words in her head. Her cunt is tense yet soft with her wetness, and it's all because of him.
Draco has reduced her to a puddle of alacrity.
And as her fingers slide in and out and her thumb swipes over her clit in fluctuated patterns, she has to bite her tongue to mask the festering moans for him.
Gods deserve offerings.
Yes, she tells herself, I fucking deserve this.
The way Draco's hand tugged on Hannah's hair and held her chin up straight—Hermione curls her fingers and hits a spot deep within her, one that sends a pang of pleasure to her stomach and forces it to contract.
The way he toyed with his lips while she relayed those gory images to him—her thumb moves even faster over herself, and she begins to feel an orgasm build and rile her insides.
The way they lingered only a breath away above Hannah's unconscious body, and one jut forward would've resulted in their lips upon one another—Hermione removes her fingers and instead uses the tips of them to rub against her clit. Because she can feel it, she's almost there, and she just needs a little impetus, one more thing to think about, one more memory of the night to make her come like she's never come before—
In truth, what pushes Hermione over the edge is not something that Draco has done. Although his face and actions are what got her to this point, what really gets Hermione to finish herself off properly is the memory of the pumping adrenaline within her as she slapped Hannah across the face and watched as her blue eyes bulged out of their sockets and veins contracted upon her sweaty forehead.
That image of Hannah's terrified face—that's what drives Hermione to orgasm.
The jolt shocks her body, causing her torso to lurch off the bed and her mouth to unbolt. She comes sweetly onto her fingers, her toes curling and her teeth digging into her lower lip.
After letting out a quick breath and dropping her head back against her plush pillow, Hermione adjusts herself and slowly removes her fingers from her underwear. Briefly rubbing them against her bare leg, she subsequently interlocks her fingers together in a tight fist upon her chest and resumes her nightly ritual of staring at the ceiling.
It's funny how power, dominance, and fear are what gave her the strength to reach that moment of blissful release. Draco unquestionably helped get her there. His seductive mannerisms, the way he was clearly proud of her for what she was doing, the look he gave her when she slapped Hannah around—those were all steppingstones to that final act of idyllic unraveling.
Because in the end, Draco is seductive, tempting, and irresistible. That isn't something that Hermione can deny.
But what really gets Hermione off—what makes her fucking come like she's never come before—is her ability to control a situation, exert her dominance, instill fear in her victims, and transform in the blink of an eye into the Ophelia she was always destined to become.
The following morning, in the Great Hall, Hermione decides to do it.
Test the Torment Curse.
She longed to mutter Castello's glorious incantation all night, dreaming about the way Hannah squirmed and cried under her. The fear in her eyes was like alcohol to Hermione—she knocked back the sight and relished in the heat that stung both her throat and stomach.
And now, in this moment, Hermione wants nothing more than to be intoxicated yet again. To feel warmth glide its way around her nerves and into her bloodstream.
"Flitwick has assigned a ridiculous amount of work for us this week," Ron complains to her left. "I mean—" he stuffs the end of a sausage into his mouth and chews, and gods Hermione can't stand the sight or sound as he chomps down on the meat— "ten bloody analysis—er, analysisses—er, uh, analyses?"
Across the table, as she takes a sip of her breakfast tea, Ginny snorts, funneling drops of her tea back into her cup.
Ron rolls his eyes in annoyance and swallows the food in his mouth. "Whatever," he mumbles, taking another large bite of the sausage. "Ten analyses on ten separate, advanced charms. On top of all the other work that I have to do for other classes, that's just bloody excessive."
"I'm sure you'll find a way to complete your assignments," Ginny responds, drawing another small sip from her cup of tea.
Ron sighs and turns to look at Hermione.
"Maybe we could work together?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in optimism.
Why? So that you can use my brain and fucking cheat your way through the rest of the year, you absolute fucking arsehole—
An exaggeration. Hermione knows that those thoughts are utter exaggerations of the situation at hand. It's more than likely that Ron just wants to work with her for the comfort factor.
But there's that other part of Hermione that convinces her that it's simply because he is a cheating, conniving, lazy bastard. Too fucking stupid to do anything right on his own.
An exaggeration, she tells herself. Calm the fuck down.
Why? Why calm down when it feels so good to be angry?
"Sure, Ron," Hermione answers with a phony smile. "Maybe later today."
He smiles and sighs. "You're the best, 'Mione."
She laughs to herself at Ron's oblivious comment—censors the sound of her chuckle to just her own brain. It's a sweet echo in her mind.
Hermione's eyes gloss over Ron to his left, and she spots Hannah sitting at the Hufflepuff table. Hannah's settled on the bench in the same aisle as her, nestled between two other Hufflepuffs. But Hannah—she looks tired. Worn down and drained and muddied by her surroundings.
Considering that she was tortured the night before, however, she looks relatively normal.
Fuck's sake, Hermione didn't do anything that bad. She didn't kill the girl. Didn't slit her throat. Didn't dismember her. Didn't feast on her blood or rip out her heart or stab her—although all of those things do sound quite fun.
Not yet, not yet, not yet.
In time.
Soon.
While Ron and Ginny converse—something about Harry coming to visit in a few weeks—Hermione turns further over her shoulder to comb the Slytherin table for Draco. Her eyes glance over the pack of them, cackling like hyenas as they play with their food and spiritedly nudge one another.
And then, just to the left of that rowdy group, Hermione catches Draco's gaze, already hot against her eyes as he stares her down.
The corner of her lips rises in a suggestive grin as Hermione begins to communicate with him in the way they know best.
Shall I do it, then?
Draco continues to stare her down, his chest inflating in a telling manner.
Would that make you happy, Malfoy? Would that satisfy you?
He grins so wickedly that the Devil would run if he saw the look on his face.
And Hermione continues to tease him, because it's amusing.
Why don't you use that tongue of yours again? Go on—lick those lips if you'd like me to do it.
Draco doesn't hesitate. He tenderly runs his tongue against his lips, leading Hermione's insides to shudder yet again at how enchanting he looks—at how sweet those lips seem.
She decides that no more time should be wasted. If she's going to do this, it has to be now.
Hermione adjusts her head so that she faces the inside of the Gryffindor table. She looks at the people around her—takes in the sight of her joyful peers—and imagines how satisfying it will feel to bear this chaos on them in the future.
Make them suffer, make them hurt, make them bleed.
With Hannah Abbott's terrified expression and Castello's detailed instructions rooted in her mind, Hermione whispers, "Senti tuum dolorem."
There's a bloodcurdling scream that comes from the Hufflepuff table. And it echoes through the Great Hall like a bellowing roar from a great beast—a mother lion who's just lost her cub, a dragon who's lost her treasure, a lover who's lost her other half. It's shrill and explicitly torturous, and it startles every single peerson in the hall.
And when Hermione turns with the rest of her classmates to behold the scene, she sees Hannah sprawled out on the stone floor behind the bench, tugging her hair and begging for release.
"Oh, gods!" Hannah cries, shuffling back on her hands and feet and then subsequently pulling at wiry bunches of her hair. "No, no! Make it stop, please!"
Hermione feels a burst of heat rise in her fingers and through her chest. It simmers within her like a stew, and she comes to realize that the louder Hannah screams and the further she drives herself crazy, the more powerful Hermione becomes. The more indebted to the book she feels. The more enthralled with Castello she finds herself.
And she's only just beginning.
Abruptly rising from her seat at the Professor's Table, McGonagall observes with concerned eyes as Hannah continues to thrash on the floor. She lifts her navy robes and rushes around the back of the table, clearly resolved to reach Hannah—Hannah, who is searing off her own vocal cords with the volume of the cry, the strain of her throat, and the pressure in her chest.
"Not again!" Hannah cries out, shaking her head and gathering her knees to her chest. She rocks back and forth as tears burst from her eyes. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"
Hermione watches with a façade full of fear but a heart enriched with awe as Hannah swivels her head to look at one of the Hufflepuffs she was just sitting next to. She frantically shuffles to her feet and crawls towards the student, mouth wide open and drool pooling at her lips. When she grips the arm of the student, he panics and tries to pull away. But Hannah is determined and quicker—she grabs his arm again and hauls him off of the bench and onto the floor.
And then, much to his utter fear, Hannah cradles her head against his chest and sobs into him.
"Justin! Oh gods, come back to me! Please don't die again! Don't do this again!"
She believes the boy to be Justin.
Hermione shudders in delight.
All of a sudden, as quick as lightning would flash before one's eyes, Hannah jerks her head off of his chest, places her hands upon him, then lifts her palms to her face and screams. She scrubs her hands on her robes while the boy jumps to his feet and hops back onto the bench. The way she stares at her hands—it's like they're stained with blood. Justin's blood.
She's seeing the apparitions all over again.
The students in the area begin to rise and disperse in a stampede, and in the meanwhile, Hannah continues to cry in the center of the aisle. Behind her, McGonagall hastens down the steps, her robes flowing behind her and her hand clasped over her mouth in shock. Everyone stares in shock as Hannah cries, screams, and begins to strike her head with her fists, as if to oust the gruesome thoughts that colonize her mind.
And then, in a moment of purpose, Hannah stops, rises to her feet, points her finger towards the door of the Great Hall, and begins to rush down the aisle in staggered yet determined steps, steps that are both ghostly yet resolute, as if something waits for her at the end of the aisle.
Perhaps it's Justin.
Hermione hopes it's Justin.
Hermione hopes it's Justin about to be mauled, quartered, stabbed, or murdered yet again. She prays that the images rushing across Hannah's eyesight are crystal clear and as unblemished as even the most transparent slice of glass. Begs the forces in Hannah's mind to recreate the bloody images to the best of their ability—really make her believe that Justin is bleeding to death right in front of her.
Stumbling across the aisle and dropping onto her knees just a few feet from where Hermione is still sitting with the others, Hannah begins to weep more. She holds out her arms to some fictitious image, grasping at the air and then dragging down the skin of her neck with her fingernails.
Draw blood, draw blood, draw your own fucking blood. I want to see it.
"You were here!" she screams, gesturing to the floor yet still looking straight forward at the assumed apparition. "I cried over your body right here!"
Finally, McGonagall reaches Hannah and places her hands upon her shaking shoulders. "Ms. Abbott!" she exclaims, attempting to sedate Hannah with a simple touch, a tug back to reality.
Hannah spins on her knees, looks up at McGonagall, and grabs the bottom of the navy-blue robes, tugging them down ferociously and almost pulling the Headmistress with her.
"Madam Pomfrey—you have to save him, please! He can't die! Save him!"
McGonagall gasps, the color of her face turning a blindingly pale color, and while trying to support Hannah in her arms as she cries and cries, she turns her head back towards the Professor's Table.
She calls out for Madam Pomfrey, who's already standing and watching in horror.
"Poppy!" she calls out, desperation staining her cry.
The nurse leaps into action and rushes towards them, her hand covering her mouth as she rounds the corner of the table and stumbles down the stairs and aisle.
Temples profusely sweating and cheeks flushed a sadistically dark red, Hannah continues to pull on McGonagall's robes and beg for Justin's life.
"He can't die," Hannah repeats over and over. "He's too young… far too young… too beautiful… we're supposed to be together forever… oh please, please save him!"
The hall is virtually silent, save Hannah's piercing cries. It seems as though all eyes are glued to the dramatic scene that unfolds in her epicenter of the room. First years stand on benches to get a better look, eighth years widen their eyes in angst as the sight triggers the effects of the war within them—everyone is uniquely captivated by the scene that unfolds before them, the scene that is more captivating than anything a theatre could possibly consider showing. Here, in the Great Hall, Hannah Abbott performs the most spectacular reenactment of the player who goes mad, whose visions and guilt consume them until, eventually, they're too palpable to withstand any further.
She's Macbeth. Driven mad by the sight of death. Fictitious death.
"He—he—he was right here," Hannah continues, now gripping McGonagall's arms. "I see him—how do I see him? He's dead—no! He's alive!"
Madam Pomfrey finally joins them in the center of the aisle. She reaches forward to brush Hannah's hair—messy and strewn across her forehead and cheeks—out of her face and behind her ears. She then takes one of Hannah's arms in hers and looks at McGonagall.
"She needs to be taken to the Hospital Wing," Madam Pomfrey suggests. "I can sedate her there and begin an evaluation of her mental state."
McGonagall nods in resolution, and they begin to drag her away to the best of their abilities. But Hannah is strong and determined to remain fixed to the ghost of her boyfriend's side.
"Don't! Please let me stay with him!" Hannah rasps, reaching for that spot on the ground as McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey drag her away. "He needs me! He called out for me! I have to stay with him, please!"
Hannah's efforts and pleas amount to little. Her knees fall weak and her mind grows tired as she's practically carried down the aisle.
But as they pass Hermione, and Hannah makes direct eye contact with her attacker, she emits the surliest, most petrifying scream that Hermione has ever heard. It comes from her throat—right there against her vocal cords—and unlike last night when the sound annoyed Hermione, today is stimulates her. She inhales the air as solidifies the sound in her mind, a sound more beautiful than the crash of cymbals or the twitter of a flute.
It even surpasses those cries that echo from time to time in her head from that fateful night of the battle on Hogwarts' grounds. Cries that she thought were forever embedded in her memory as the most painful things she could ever hear in her life.
Nothing compares to this cry of Hannah's—it shatters Hermione's bones in the most satisfying way possible. Ironically, it makes her feel complete. Powerful.
"NO!" Hannah screeches, staring right at Hermione. Her fingers flex and lunge towards her, and for a moment Hermione panics. Dreads that the Memory Charm didn't do what it was supposed to do.
"Don't hurt him anymore! Help me, please! Ophe—!"
Hannah ceases her shouting and tilts her head while staring Hermione down, and Hermione takes a bottomless breath, a breath so deep and low that Hell itself shudders at the depths.
She remembers the name. Hannah remembers her name.
Ophelia.
She's written in the stars of Hannah Abbott's mind. Lives among the sun and moon and celestial beings like a constellation herself.
Eventually, Hannah is dragged out of the Great Hall, still kicking and screaming and directing her pleas to Hermione, to Madam Pomfrey, to Justin, to any being that can hear her.
The gods can't hear you, Hannah. Only I can.
The silence that colonizes the Great Hall once the doors shut is thick. Each student reflects in stupor over the turn of events, the chaos that arose out of a total void. Nobody moves an inch, nobody eats. There are no conversations or whispers. There's just an ominous silence, too intense and real for anyone to be brave enough to break.
It takes Hagrid's booming voice to persuade the students to continue with their meals.
"Er—it's alright, you lot!" he bellows, waving his arms in the air as his chair squeaks from under him. "Just—er—keep eatin'!"
Nobody moves at first. The once bustling Great Hall is reduced to stagnation and lethargy as each student individually contemplates the horror which they witnessed—the fall of Hannah Abbott. But after a minute, the tension breaks, and the students settle back into eating.
It's still quiet, though. Eerie. The ghost of Hannah and her cries remains in the Great Hall, and every whisper and conversation centers around her.
Ron is the first of them to shatter their pocket of silence. "What the bloody hell was that?" he asks, genuine terror in his eyes.
Hermione shrugs—tightens the reigns on her acting and responds. "I—I don't know."
Leaning forward on her elbows to whisper, Ginny says, "The way she looked at and addressed you was just terrible, Hermione."
Hermione nods, replaying the look on Hannah's face as she looked at her just a moment ago. She matches the gaze to the one from last night—eyes wide, veins lengthened, mouth loose. So beautiful.
"Yeah," she responds, shaking her head, "terrible."
Was it, though?
Certainly not.
That entire time, Hermione basked in the way that Hannah's body spiraled and thrashed against the stone floor of the Great Hall. It was a sight more beautiful than most, and it was triggered by her. By him. They did this together.
They could do anything together.
Hermione turns over her shoulder once more to look at Draco. He's gawking at her, mouth open and eyes glittering with victory. It's that sight of him that leads Hermione to twist her lips into a seductive smirk.
I'm satisfied, she thinks to herself, directing the words at Draco. Are you?
And he does that motion with his lips again—licks them to draw attention to that area, to confirm his answer, to remind Hermione just how soft they look.
She looks away and slowly smiles as she lifts a piece of fruit to her mouth. She chews down on it and tastes everything between the juices—glory, pride, honor, and all that's present in between.
The thrill of the events in the Great Hall transfers to and colonizes the energy in the Potions classroom later that day.
Hannah Abbott is all anyone talks about.
Hushed whispers and perplexed facial expressions paint the layout of the dim room as the students attempt to complete their assignment to the best of their ability. But the distraction of it all seems to loom over each student and dominate their thoughts without clemency.
And Hermione revels in it. Basks in her growing yet covert legacy, a legacy that she can taste on the tip of her tongue and feel on the pads of her fingers. All remnants of the magic that seemed to glide through her body as she watched Hannah fall victim to her sorcery yet again.
"She's in the Hospital Wing now," Parvati gossips, leaning over the table as she ignores the assignment at hand. "Apparently, she's delusional about Justin. Keeps thinking that he's in front of her, dying. How gruesome is that?"
"Poor thing," Katie responds, fidgeting with a squill bulb for her potion as she discerns the proper methods for juicing the ingredient.
"Does anyone know what set her off, exactly?" Ginny asks, furrowing her eyebrows and sprinkling her thyme into the cauldron. "I mean, it just… it seemed to happen out of nowhere. It's odd, you know?"
Parvati shrugs and sighs, lifting her elbows off of the table and resuming her work. "No idea. My guess is that she's been bottling up all those emotions about his death, and someone said something she didn't like. I dunno, though. Hannah's never been one to put on a show like that. She's much too reserved." Parvati huffs out a confused breath of air. "So weird."
As she listens to the conversation, Hermione licks her lips in satisfaction. It's entertaining, above all else—to know something that others don't. To not only have insight into a mystery that grips the entire student body, but to be the driving factor of the thriller. It's all so refreshing and stimulating. A scratch that has indeed been itched.
Her eyes wander past Parvati's shoulders and land on the group of Slytherins two tables down. And she watches as Draco carefully prepares the ingredients for his own potion. His deft fingers work without fault, and his hands appear dexterous and precise and calculated with every move they make.
She studies them like a book—the way his veins pulse and his bones contort is all too enchanting, and so her lips begin to part in amazement and her mind begins to ruminate further as she thinks about how satisfying those fingers would feel where hers were last night—
"Hermione?"
Her eyes leave Draco and dart back to Katie, who's staring at her from across the table with a concerned look in her eyes.
"Your brew is boiling over," Katie says, pointing to the cauldron in front of Hermione.
Hermione glances at the bubbling brew in front of her, watching as the sizzling liquid trickles over the rim of the grey cauldron. She curses under her breath and quickly places a lid on top of the cauldron. Slightly panicking about the sound of the sizzling that continues to emit from the potion, Hermione grabs her wand and mumbles a charm to dispel the liquid entirely.
"I'll just start over," Hermione mutters, wiping the back of her hand over her forehead and rolling her eyes.
Parvati cocks an eyebrow and somewhat scoffs at Hermione, and that little sound makes her insides tighten and contract.
"Are you alright—"
Not that fucking question again. I swear, I'm going to pull your teeth out of your big mouth, rip your throat out with my bare hands, tear your nails off of your fingers, grind and blend all those ingredients, and drink them for breakfast—
"I'm fine," Hermione says briskly. "I just—"
Hermione falters again, her tired eyes wandering between the three girls in front of her.
"I just—I feel—I—"
"Are you worried for Hannah?" Katie asks, sincerity in both her gaze and her words. "The way she looked at you in the Great Hall… I mean, I would be. It's like she was begging for you to help her. Probably because she knows you're the strongest of us all. What with everything that happened last year." She pauses, fiddling with her thyme and eventually scattering it into the cauldron. "I can't imagine what that must've felt like, you know? To be so powerless in that situation with Hannah and not know what to do to help her."
Hermione has to fight the urge to scream until her vocal cords fry off.
Powerless? Hermione had all the fucking power. She held Hannah's sanity in the palm of her hand in that moment, and with one tight squeeze, Hermione's could've ended Hannah's life.
You don't know anything, Katie. And you don't want to.
"Yes, that's it," Hermione responds, nodding her head and playing the part she's been assigned. "The look in her eyes was just so heartbreaking."
Not.
The look in Hannah's eyes was enthralling. It was like looking into her own crystal cave of surreptitious desires, and lining the murky walls of her earth's fissure were layers of shiny stones and gems that revealed in their crisp and incandescent light each layer of horror that Hannah underwent. And were she to just reach her hand forward and touch one of those gemstones, Hermione could spark those sounds and visuals. All of those sensations—the sounds, sights, feelings—all rest at the corners of her memory, and that memory of the look in Hannah's eyes is the trigger.
Hermione returns to her potion for a moment, assembling the ingredients and preparing the brew yet again. But when she glances back up moments later, she notices something peculiar about Katie's disposition and attention.
Katie's eyes are glued to Dean Thomas, who works at a table to her left, and she's smiling like a child on Christmas morning. Dean smirks back, and Hermione observes as his cheeks blush and his tongue drags around the inside of his mouth.
Katie giggles and blushes.
Giggling? Blushing? What the fuck is happening here?
Hermione catches Dean wink at Katie. It's surreptitious and quick, but there's no doubt in her mind that it's what she's just seen.
Are they…?
What the fuck?
Why does this anger Hermione so much? Why do those little endearing glances and rouged cheeks rile such discomfort and rage in the center of Hermione's chest? Why does a sign of affection make her sick to her stomach?
Sick. Hermione feels like she'll gag any second.
And then she remembers hearing something about Dean throwing himself in front of Katie during the decisive battle at Hogwarts just as she was about to be attacked by a Death Eater—Rosier, Hermione believes. Dean had suffered the effects of a curse that was intended for her. Whether it was out of sheer idiocy or some sort of hidden adoration for her, Dean had risked his life to save Katie Bell that day.
And now—what—they're together? Is that supposed to make Hermione feel any sort of compassion? Feel warm and fuzzy at the fact that Katie and Dean have manipulated the meaning of the war to serve as some sort of genesis of their relationship?
War isn't supposed to bring people together like this. At least, not in her mind.
So, fuck them for using the suffering of students to breed a relationship—one, she might add, they appear to be keeping a secret.
Hermione's brain hurts thinking about it. What the fuck are they playing at?
She works for the rest of the class in silence, her façade rising and concealing the ire within, and when she completes her potion and exhibits it for Professor Slughorn's approval, Hermione finds herself glancing back at Katie and Dean, carefully surveying their illicit and clandestine looks for further confirmation. The glimpses continue between the two, much to Hermione's disgust.
At the end of class, she leaves with the rest of the Gryffindor house and begins the long walk back to the dorms, where she suspects that she'll spend an hour between classes curled up in her bed, curtains drawn, Castello's book wide in her lap to read.
That book, which has been calling her name since she's been away from it.
Already up the stairs and back in the main corridor, Hermione plays with her fingers when she realizes that she's left a gold ring of hers in the classroom. She prefers to remove her jewelry when she brews potions, and she must've been too distracted by Katie and Dean's disgusting display of affection to remember to take her ring with her upon departure.
"Fuck," she whispers, halting in the midst of a sea of students.
Ron turns around and tilts his head. "Everything alright?"
"I've left something in the classroom," she responds, rolling her eyes. "I'll catch up with you all in a bit."
Ron clears his throat. "Need me to come with you?"
Fuck no.
Hermione shakes her head and sweetly replies, "No, that's alright. I'll only be a minute."
Relenting to her ambiguous response, Ron nods and walks with the others in the opposite direction.
She sighs a breath of relief above all else, because Hermione is free from Ron's incessant pestering and repulsive habits for at least a little longer. Her oxygen won't be further tainted by his insipid presence.
Turning around to make the walk back to the classroom, Hermione has to beat against the swarm of students walking against her. She pushes through the crowd to the best of her ability, sliding through the spaces between the mass of shoulders and bodies before her.
On her way, her shoulder collides with someone else's. She shoots a glare at the individual in question: Theodore Nott. And he's accompanied by his fellow pack of Slytherins.
But not by him.
He's not walking with them.
Where is he, then?
"Pardon me, Granger," Theo says coolly, eyeing Hermione up and down with a look that could melt steel. "Didn't mean to damage any of your precious goods."
Hermione pinches her eyes in response, scoffs, and walks away.
"Oh, not the sweet Gryffindor Princess that everyone raves about, is she?"
It's a lighter voice which makes that comment, but it still carries a presumptuous and apathetic tone.
When Hermione turns to confirm the speaker, she sees that it's Pansy Parkinson. Hermione glares at her, and then her eyes wander south and cling to the silver pin that's attached to the lapel of her robes—she's the Head Girl.
Pansy? Pansy is the Head Girl? Fuck's sake…
"It's fine, Pans. She clearly doesn't want to associate in any capacity with the likes of us, does she?"
Blaise Zabini. With the side of his lip curled in a smirk and his arm amicably wrapped around Pansy's shoulder, he surveys Hermione up and down and clicks his tongue.
"Shame," Pansy whispers, tilting her head. "She has so much potential."
The three of them spin and walk away in a fit of laughter before Hermione can counter their slights with her own snide thoughts. Instead, she forces out an angry breath and continues on.
She eventually makes her way back to the classroom, trudging down the stairs in annoyance with her recent encounter with the Slytherins. And when she arrives at the door and finds that it's already been locked, Hermione begins to feel even more aggravated with the world. She reaches for her wand in the pockets of her robes, holds it to the lock, and whispers, "Alohomora."
Slipping into the room, Hermione immediately makes for the table she was working at, but when she doesn't find her ring in the spot which she left it, she groans. And it feels like that anger is climbing higher and higher within her, and she simply can't help grinding her teeth together as another level of frustration almost soars past her boundaries.
Glancing around the room, Hermione makes her way to Slughorn's desk to look there.
She finds it resting upon a stack of papers.
Reaching over and sighing, Hermione picks up the ring and slips it back onto her right ring finger, exactly where it belongs.
When she turns around, she's startled to find Draco looming right behind her.
Hermione jumps and yelps, placing her hand over her pounding heart as the back of her legs collide with the side of the desk. His stare is cold and calculated, coupled with that same smirk that would send the Devil running in any direction other than his. Although it seems like no stretch of the earth could escape the provocative way that Draco looks at Hermione in this instant.
She wonders if Draco has been to Hell yet, and now comes back bearing the truth of that torturous, hot, bloody etherworld, a stratum built on the back of fire and terror.
She starts to truly comprehend the number that Azkaban did on him. It truly left him soulless, terrifying, a fragment of the boy he once was. Or, perhaps, a more completed self.
"Did you enjoy yourself today?"
Immediately, Hermione's mind panics at the tone and content of the question. She considers that Draco has somehow dug into her mind without her knowledge and discovered her licentious secret—what she did to herself last night in her bed. What she was thinking about when she came undone, unfolded and succumbed to the seduction of it all.
It's the way that Draco says the word 'enjoy' that terrifies her. There's something cunningly suggestive about those two syllables—something that indicates his awareness and knowledge over her every move, even ones that are supposed to be private.
"Did you enjoy watching your little play toy squirm and cry?" he asks again, and holy fuck her mind wanders to a thought so inappropriate and sinful that she has to bite her bottom lip to resist the color she knows is flooding her cheeks, a color that will uncover her complicity without leniency.
"You put on quite a show in the Great Hall. And you seemed to enjoy yourself."
Hermione exhales a brief sigh of relief.
Draco's talking about Hannah. Not… about herself. Not about what she did… alone.
She was alone, but he was still there in her thoughts. And he can't know that—can't know the extent of the power he holds over her.
"I did enjoy myself," she replies, adjusting the strap of her satchel full of books on her shoulders. "Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Mmm," he answers with a slow nod. "Very much so."
"Good."
There's a beat, and in that period of silence Draco takes another step towards her.
She feels the edge of the desk plunge past her robes and depress her skin when she leans back into it. There's gearing up to be almost no space between them, and Hermione fears that she'll lose herself and her power if he takes another step forward.
"What are you still doing here?" she asks, attempting to steer the conversation so that she can make her escape at some point.
Draco smirks—Merlin, he's terrifying and enchanting all at the same time.
"I noticed your sweet little ring abandoned on the table. Figured you'd come back for it sooner rather than later."
He takes that next step, and suddenly he's very close to Hermione. Too close.
And then his hands drop to grip the edge of the table on either side of her, and he leans forward and down and smirks at her in that fucking hypnotic fashion—
"I'm surprised you didn't spot me loitering outside the door," he whispers, his breath fluttering above Hermione's lips. "You usually have such a keen eye when it comes to watching and noticing things."
Hermione's mind skips a beat for two reasons: she honestly doesn't remember him standing outside of the classroom—which is undoubtedly frustrating—and she can't help but buckle at the proximity of his mouth from hers. He's so bloody close to her, so much like a parasite that clings to its victim in order to yield the grimiest results.
And it's all so bloody maddening.
Draco tuts, shaking his head slowly. "It's delectable listening to you try to figure out where I was just a minute ago. Haven't I already confessed that the Disillusionment Charm is one of my favorites? Thought you might pick up on that fact sooner rather than later." He lowers and cranes his head so that his lips hover just besides Hermione's ear, and then he whispers, "Don't tell me you're a shit listener, Granger."
Her words. Her threat. Her power, all of a sudden usurped by him and used against her.
If this is what powerless feels like, even when she's capable of rage, then Hermione pities the person that causes her to feel this way in the future. Even if that person is Draco himself.
Hermione's fingers curl and her fists tighten as the urge to slap him across the face tempts her nerves, dances and whistles and entices her to lift her hand and strike him across the cheek.
Before she does it, she considers that Draco is toying with her yet again. That this whole ruse is just another test of her endurance and control. She'd failed the first one—let Draco get the best of her in that grimy supply closet just days ago. Unwilling to lose herself in his game again, Hermione releases the force in her fists and drops her hands to her sides.
"Anything else I can do for you?" she asks, swallowing those callous words and ensuring that she heighten the indignance in her tone of voice.
Draco asks a one-worded question: "When?"
"When what—"
"When are we doing it again?"
Hermione raises her eyebrows at that sweet, little beg of his. He's all too eager, or so it sounds. It's the way his lips shift without stutter or blunder and the way his eyes light up at even the thought of getting his hands around someone again.
Perhaps, Hermione still holds some power.
"Someone's eager—"
"And you're not?"
She digs her throbbing tongue into the side of her cheek. "I am. I just prefer to take my time and enjoy it all."
Draco shrugs and lifts himself off of the desk, and Hermione finally feels like she can breathe again. "Fair enough," he slurs. "But I am quite impatient, so it seems as though we're at an impasse."
She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and sidesteps Draco, managing to cut around him and start to leave. Over her shoulder, though, she says, "Doesn't seem like my problem. You agreed to do this with me, and we're doing it on my terms."
"Yeah," Draco says, elongating the word in a tantalizing tone as he turns to watch Hermione walk away. "I don't know if I agree with that approach."
She halts in her tracks, her torso jerking forward when her legs decide to stop working. And then she clenches her hands and fingers into tight fists again, blows hot air out of her flared nostrils, and turns around to stare at that smug face of his, that face that speaks a thousand nefarious words.
"And I think," he continues, walking towards her slowly, "deep down, you're not satisfied with waiting either."
How is he so talented at drawing out Hermione's deepest desires? How does he know which buttons yearn to be pressed by someone with nimble fingers, fingers as dexterous and calming as his? How does he have such a strong hold on Hermione when they're barely spoken to one another over the years?
He's doing it again, she thinks to herself. So… just… suppress it. You know what you're doing. Control it.
"You know what I think?" Hermione taunts, the smile on Draco's face transferring to hers as she speaks those words. "I think this is all just going to be a game for you, Malfoy. You have no reason for doing this. No reason at all. You exist in a world that is so far detached from the one we live in right now, yet you are making it a priority to severely disclose your own personal views. So, I think you just get off on it all. I, on the other hand, have my reasons. And therefore, I should be the one that dictates how this plays out—"
"You think I don't have my own reasons—"
"You have nothing inside of you," she spits, followed by gritted teeth and a squinted stare. "You made that quite clear. There are no emotions, no grievances—nothing."
Draco huffs. "Doesn't that just make our dynamic even stronger?"
With an exasperated shake of her head, Hermione ultimately decides to traverse down whatever path Draco seems to be talking about. "Enlighten me on how you could possibly think that."
"You almost hesitated."
Her breath hitches in her throat, and her fingers freeze from fidgeting.
"When we were torturing Hannah, I saw a look in your eyes right before I dug into her mind. You hesitated." He approaches her, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth like a steady snare drum. "So, I think you do need me, Granger. You need an unmerciful force to guide you through all of this. Otherwise, you won't be able to stomach your own plans if you actually have to do them yourself."
Hermione stands dumbfounded. She's both stunned and irritated at the way Draco can so effortlessly pull her apart and examine her most intimate thoughts and fears. It drives her to muster up even more power within her—flip the switch again and remind him just how gruesome and insane she can become, should her lovely Ophelia make an appearance again.
But for the time being, all she thinks is, he's right. Damnit, he's right.
"I know I'm right," he slurs, and all of a sudden, he's pressing his chest against hers, and when the fuck did he get so close to her? When did he bridge that gap and steal part of her air?
"You need me."
That proclamation makes Hermione think about last night—makes her ruminate on all that she was able to do for herself without him. How she herself was able to reminisce on those memories and subsequently drag out of a pool of her wetness, wetness defined by the rush of power she held while torturing Hannah. How she was able to explore herself with make herself come in what felt like a flash of light, a brief scream of pleasure and euphoria and everything in between.
"Not for everything," she spurts, and when Draco tilts his head in intrigue, her nerves quiver.
"No?" he asks, leaning down and getting close—too close—to her face.
When she exhales, Hermione can feel her breath bounce off of Draco's skin.
She's able to regain her composure when she sees him lick his lips again. It's like some sort of tug back to the force inside of her that begs Draco for that tell. When he does it—when his tongue curls against his bottom lip and then slowly disappears back into his mouth, Hermione finds the strength to resist the show he's putting on for her.
"You're at my beck and call," she says, angling her head to the left. "Not the other way around. Don't mix it up, Malfoy."
He smirks at her. Edges even closer to intrude on more of her space.
And then he's only inches away, and Hermione considers for one moment how satisfying it would be to plunge her lips against his. Consummate whatever darkness holds both of them and then seemingly double the amount. Create a whole new meaning of whatever it is they are to one another in this moment.
He opens his mouth to speak. "I'm still waiting on my treat, you know. And like I've already said—I'm impatient."
It happens in a moment of conviction and a rush of power—her response.
"And now you'll wait longer," she seethes, pulling away and storming towards the door for good.
She hears him chuckle from over her shoulder. It's a laugh that would usually make one's hair stand on edge from both the wickedness and the satisfaction that beats the air with each breath. Hermione savors it, actually. Allows the remnants of his snicker to drive that darkness inside of her even further, should she need to turn around and shut him up.
"Won't you at least give me a hint as to who our next victim is?" he calls out.
Hermione pauses. Considers the brief thought that ran through her mind in class earlier when she watched Dean and Katie flirt and giggle and share sweet glances with one another. The sight was just sickening.
She wishes that those two didn't know that sort of love anymore.
And she wonders if Castello ever had the same idea.
"Not victim," she says over her shoulder.
Draco raises his eyebrows just as Hermione lifts her head to get a better look at him. He's intrigued, the edge of his lips lifting as he contemplates what she means.
"Victims. Two of them. Lovebirds that deserve to be struck by a stone or two."